A Gillington Story
by Daughter Mestizo
Summary: How do you get close to a commodore? You can't, unless you're already close. This is the story of a British hopeful, and a lonely French boy. Slash in later chapters. Norrington x Gillette. Groves co-stars.
1. Storm and Memory

Chapter One

"MAN OVERBOARD!"

Lieutenant James Norrington yelled at the top of his lungs, though just about everyone on board knew it already. One of the midshipmen had said it was bad luck to have woman on board, and yet without her keen, youthful eyes the ship may have sailed right over the young boy floating on a small plank just below them.

"Man the ropes! Fetch a hook!"

Norrington stomped hurriedly to the back of the ship, making sure everyone knew what to do. He passed a man with tender, brown eyes and flaming orange hair. The midshipman smiled at him as he passed a rope to another man. Norrington smiled back, but was already ten paces past him.

"Haul him aboard!" Face screwed up again, he followed a crowd of men who had just brought the boy on board. Norrington knelt next to him and pressed two fingers to his neck, as he had learned to do many years ago. "He's still breathing."

"Mary, Mother o' God."

The crowd whipped around and Norrington struggled not to trip over his men as he ran to the side of the boat. A collective gasp of horror swam through the crowd. There was a flaming ship no more than 60 feet away from the _Dauntless_, broken into pieces and yet, still floating. It was spectacular to behold, or would have been, if it weren't so tragic.

Norrington yelled for the men to row to the ship, and gave hurried orders to several of the other lieutenants. He then proceeded back to where the boy was lying, with the governor's daughter leaning over him. Was he awake?

"Has he said anything?" Norrington knew he had shocked the young girl when she twirled around less than gracefully.

"His name's William Turner. That's all I found out," she replied in a confident manner, tipped with some reverence at being addressed by the first lieutenant. Norrington nodded briskly and gestured to the two men behind him.

"Take him below," The men nodded and moved around him. Young Elizabeth was still gazing at Norrington. He gave her a quick smile to reassure her that he hadn't meant 'to the brig', and walked away. Norrington caught the eye of the red-haired midshipman once more before moving to speak with the captain, who had just appeared.

Lieutenant Norrington's neck ached terribly. He was exhausted, not to mention sad, by the end of the day's excavations. No one else had been found alive on the merchant ship. Not even the newly appointed Governor Swann could deny it now, the ship had been attacked. Nothing of value had been left aboard, now was anything of value floating in the surrounding waters. It was hopeless.

About half an hour ago, the over-worked lieutenant had entered his office and sat down at his desk. But rather than doing work he had simply leaned his head back and closed his eyes. It was no good for his neck, but if he was caught sleeping in bed at only 8pm, he would be in some trouble with the captain.

_Lazy man_, thought Norrington. He was not known for being smug in the least, but even Norrington knew that he'd make a better captain than that man someday. There were rumours going around that the captain would only be staying in Port Royal for a little while. He would then, supposedly, be leaving with the current presiding Commodore at the fort town.

Commodore; that was the title James Norrington _really_ wanted. His family background had nothing to do with it. He would have wanted this even without his parents' pushes.

He leaned his head forward and furrowed his eyebrows. Deep inside, Norrington knew that the events of this afternoon reminded him of something. His memories darted back to the young, red-haired midshipman, as they tended to do. Ah yes, now he knew exactly what it was...

* * *

A cry went up on decks. Or rather, several cries mixed together. Screams, really. Then one voice, closer than the others to the door that led below decks, yelled viciously,

"ALL HANDS ON DECK! _ALL_ HANDS ON DECK!"

James Norrington glanced around quickly to glimpse the startled faces of the other boys, before dropping his mop and darting up the stairs at full speed. Almost knocking two midshipmen down as he threw open the door, James ran to the side of the boat. It was frightful! Their vessel had some upon another ship, completely destroyed. It floated in ruins in full view of the British ship.

"Don't just stand there! Fetch rope and hooks! The lifeboats, men the _lifeboats_! Quickly!"

People started running all around. James took one last look at the huge chunks of burning wood in the water before turning and bumping into one of his friends.

"This way!" said Theodore Groves, still holding onto James' arm, "We have to grab ropes and then blankets for the survivors!"

"There are survivors?" James' heart lifted.

"We don't know yet. But just in case..." Theodore trailed off and ran ahead.

_So much for blankets,_ thought James as various other things were shoved into his arms and he was ordered here and there, either to deliver the items or help deploy a lifeboat. Some of them were already coming back. About ten men, more than could be spared, ran to the side of the ship and lifted a figure into the ship, laying him down on the deck as gently as possibly. James craned his neck, it appeared to be a young man, older than James, with light brown hair.

"Boy! James!"

James looked around. Someone kneeling next to the man was calling him irritably for a blanket. As James ran over and handed him a blanket, the midshipman grabbed his arm,

"There's others comin' back with people, so pay attention! Ya can't dream now!"

_I wasn't dreaming,_ thought James, but instead just nodded. Over the next twenty minutes, he ran back and forth on the deck, handing out blankets, water, bandages, makeshift bandages and occasionally relaying messages to the lieutenants on deck. Once or twice, he caught Theodore's eye, but was too busy to pause even for moment. Another man had been brought back, as well as some of the ship's cargo. Among the 'cargo', which was no more than junk, really, was a tattered French flag. The lieutenants had spent almost five entire minutes just looking at it.

"Hm..." said one of them, "It must have been a French naval ship."

_Brilliant deduction,_ James almost scowled, but more blankets were needed. The last of the lifeboats were returning.

"Here, take this."

"I just found these."

"There was hardly 'nything aboard, sir."

"I think I found a cabin-boy, sir!"

"There were some guns left, lieutenant."

"James! Bring another blanket!"

Eager to see if there was really a boy among the survivors, James hurried across the deck.

_Sure looks like it,_ he lingered a few moments for a better look. The boy looked about his age, in height anyways. He was heavily freckled, particularly on the backs of his hands and had flaming orange hair, making him look rather younger than James. Parts of his chin and arms were obscured by large burns, like the others that had been pulled aboard. The midshipmen kneeling beside dowsed the wounds with cold water and wrapped them in bandages. The boy stirred for a moment, but otherwise remained unconscious.

* * *

Some hours later, a place had been found for the red-headed French boy; down in the cabins with the rest of the boys, naturally. The other men were in the midshipmen cabins, healing nicely, it seemed, though nobody was conscious. Or rather, no one had remained conscious for long.

The British cabin boys and younger seamen, like James, who were too young to sleep upstairs with the others, spent a long while hovering above their new bunkmate. He had been given a new linen shirt and breeches and his hair had been tied back in a clumsy ponytail. He seemed alright.

"Do you think he speaks English?" asked Timothy Gimell, the third youngest person on the ship. A nice boy, with thin blond hair.

"Probably not," replied Justin Eyrold.

"Hey, hey! Do you think he's like all the other Frenchmen?" piped up another boy.

"What, injured?"

"No! A eunuch. You know what everybody says 'bout the French!"

The boys laughed. Even Theodore Groves joined in. James wasn't amused. He spoke French, had been to France...

"There's no truth to that, you know!" he startled the others somewhat.

"'Course we know that," Justin rolled his eyes, "We were just making fun."

Ten minutes later, everyone was in bed, perhaps mulling over the day's events, perhaps thinking about eunuchs (James grimaced) or perhaps, if they were lucky, just sleeping. James drifted off shortly afterwards, but not before hearing their new guest stir once or twice...

_To Be Continued!_


	2. Chance Meeting

Chapter 2

Sinclair Gillette stirred in his state of unconsciousness. Slowly but surely, he was coming to. His body desperately wanted it - he was starving - but it was terribly painful. Sinclair remembered the fire and knew that he had died, but why was he in Hell? That made no sense. A mixture of colours swirled in front of his closed eyelids. He tried to open them, but couldn't. He tried to sit up, but couldn't. He tried to grab hold of something, anything, for support and found that he _could_ move his arms, but it was too painful and he gave up.

As his arms dropped to his sides he realized he was lying on something...soft? Hmm...not soft, but made for comfort. Much like his bed back on the _Valeur_. Yes! The ship! Now he remembered! They...pirates?...had set the ship alight, and then....he couldn't remember anything else. But wait! If he remembered, and the bed, the sudden disappearance of the colours, yes! He was alive and-

Awake?

Sinclair opened his eyes. Ahhh....he was back aboard the _Valeur_. Back down in the boys' cabins. Just a nightmare, he realized. No pirates could overtake a king's ship.

Feeling a bit feverish, Sinclair lifted his hand to his brow, and winced. No! his mind whined desperately. But yes, it was true. As his arm came into focus, he saw that it was indeed wrapped in bandages. Almost the entire arm had been quite neatly tied up in a soft linen, much like the new shirt he had been given.

Then it occurred to the young boy. If he was injured, then the pirates _had_ attacked. If they had attacked, then the _Valeur_ _had_ been destroyed. If the ship was destroyed, then where was he?

_Another ship, of course._ Well, obviously. But what kind of ship? A French ship, a Spanish ship? Or, oh no, an English ship? If so...

Sinclair, using every ounce of strength he could summon, forced himself to sit up. His head spun and he lifted a hand wearily to cover his eyes until they adjusted. He then tried to get his bearings.

_Alright, I'm on another ship, that's for certain. I'm below-decks, I think. It seems to be night-time. There are,_ he looked around, _other boys in this cabin, so I'm probably on a military ship. Damn! _

The determined young Frenchman figured he had no time to waste. For all he knew, his rescuers' mercy would only last until he was able enough to answer questions.

_Nobody likes us. Nobody trusts us anymore. Not since that Mary came along!_

After checking the condition of his legs, only one was bandaged, he slid tentatively out of the bed to stand on a surprisingly clean and noiseless floor.

_A blessing! But something doesn't feel right..._

Instinctively, Sinclair reached for the back of his head with his less-bandaged arm, and pulled a black ribbon out of his hair.

_Ah, no, it's gone all straight again!_

No time for that now, though. Wincing every time he stood on his left leg, Sinclair managed to propel himself forwards, very, very carefully. The stairs were right in front of him, no more than 15 steps away. He had to be on a big ship, though. There were about 7 boys here, there had been only 5 on the _Valeur_, and she was, well, actually she wasn't all that big, now that he thought about it.

One step, two steps, no movement, three steps, a creak, a pause, no movement, four steps, five steps...

Yes, yes! No more than three steps now!

"Bunjoor!"

Sinclair knew right away he should have run, but panic made him turn instinctively.

A lanky, black-haired boy was standing in the middle of the room, grinning.

"Bunjoor!" he said again with a wave of his hand.

_Well, I'm on French ship, I suppose. But I've never heard an accent like that before._

"Bonjour," replied Sinclair, "Je suis soulagé d'être sur un bateau Français. Nous sommes oú maintenant?"

The boy looked rather stunned, but only for a moment. He held up his hand, motioning for Sinclair to wait, and moved over to a bed on his right.

_NOW you run!_ Yet something inside Sinclair told him to wait.

The black-haired boy was shaking a sleeping figure in the bed, whispering what Sinclair assumed was along the lines of 'get up'.

"James! James! Wake _up_! I need your help!"

The other boy, James, grumbled something unintelligible, even in English, and sat up ungracefully.

"What?" he almost hissed, "It's not morning yet!"

The first boy had abandoned his grin, but didn't look solemn. Still looking at James, he pointed straight at Sinclair, making the already worried boy, well, even more worried.

"Ah!" James sprang out of bed, "Bonjour!"

_Uh-oh. I think I _am_ on a British ship! But what's with him?_

"Je m'excuse! Bienvenue sur notre bateau, le, uh, _Everlasting_. Il n'a pas un nom en Français."

At this point, Sinclair was backing away towards the stairs.

"Je m'appelle James Norrington," the boy continued, "Comment t'appelle-tu?

"Hold on there, James! What are you saying? Are you talking dirty about me?"

James turned to his companion.

"Of course not! I just told him where he was, my name, and asked his!"

"Seemed like an awful lot of words, though."

James shrugged, and turned back to Sinclair.

"Bien, comment t'appelle-tu?"

_Hmm...they don't seem to be among the most intelligent people I've ever met. But that one there speaks French._

Sinclair drew himself up, painfully. Nonetheless, he radiated more confidence than before.

"Je suis Sinclair Thibeault Gillette! Je ne pense pas que ton ami parle Français. Mais c'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, James."

James was at a loss. This seemed suddenly like someone important. His train of thought was cut off by his friend's absurd hand gestures. He wanted a translation.

"He just told me his name, and that it was a pleasure to meet me. Oh, and he's pretty sure you don't speak French," James added with a smirk.

"Tu as correcte, mon ami ne parle pas le Français,"

"OK, _now_ you're talking about me!"

"Shh! Bien, il s'appelle Théodore Groves, et il est néanmoins un bon ami. There! I told him you were still a good friend!"

A couple of boys were stirring at this outburst. James ignored them and continued on.

"Alors, est-ce que tu parles l'Anglais?" James figured he knew the answer already, but was running out of conversation.

"Eu...good day, sir," replied Sinclair warily, "C'est tous que je sais."

"Hey, James! Ask him if he speaks any English!" Theodore poked James in the ribs to get his attention.

"I just did," came the irritated response.

"And?"

"Didn't you hear? He said 'good day, sir'. He says that's all he knows."

Theodore chuckled. Sinclair couldn't help repress a smile. This light-hearted bickering reminded him of the _Valeur_. All four of the other boys on that ship had been close friends of his. The smile disappeared. James was hissing at Theodore, who was laughing now. Sinclair bowed his head.

"Hey, shut _up_!"

The hiss had come from a bed against the far wall. Justin was glaring at James and Theodore and hadn't yet noticed Sinclair.

"Sorry mate," said Theodore with a wave of his hand.

"Why are you up anyways?"

Theodore opened his mouth but James shook his head. Too late. Justin would have questioned the move if he hadn't already turned his head.

"Hey! It's him!" he cried, intentionally loud.

"Shh!" James was somewhat anxious, "Don't wake anybody else!"

Justin ignored him. Scampering around, he shook several other boys' shoulders, before Theodore grabbed his arm to prevent him from doing anything else.

"Leggo of me!" Justin tried to shake him off. Theo other boys were rousing themselves at the noise, laughing at the fight, before one of them noticed Sinclair as well.

"Hey, look, look!"

Silence. The room was now awake and in what seemed like awe. Like a spirit of legend had just been awoken. James buried his face in his hands, knowing what would come next. The English boys stared at Sinclair as though he was a cornered animal. Sinclair stared back as though he _was_ a cornered animal.

"D'you speak English?" the largest, but not oldest, boy, Robert, was approaching Sinclair slowly. The young Frenchman, impressed by Robert's height, but also wary, could obviously not understand the question. Instead he looked quickly to James for a translation. James turned to Robert right away.

"No, he doesn't speak English. I already asked him. Now stop being stupid, you're intimidating him."

"Pff. You say it like he's an animal!" Robert continued to approach Sinclair, who backed away towards the stairs, but didn't look afraid. Still, just wary.

Robert paused.

"What's wrong with him?"

Justin added his two cents.

"He's a coward, just like all the Frenchmen."

"Hey, shut up!" Theodore had never liked Justin, for reasons such as this.

"Well, it's true."

"Is not! They had a reason!"

"Everyone be quiet! You'll wake the captain!"

"We'll be flogged!"

"This is your fault Justin!"

"I don't want no Frenchman sharing this cabin!"

Out of all the boys' cries, that last one stuck out to James.

"Wait, Robert! What are you doing?"

"If we get flogged it's his fault!" yelled back the larger boy as James grabbed his arm.

"No, it's our fault for yelling!" James knew he had nothing to do with it, but one had to be careful when playing the voice of reason. Theodore and Timothy meanwhile, were getting rather frantic.

"Look, we haven't been caught yet! If we go to sleep now, nothing will happen!"

But Robert had always been quick to anger.

"I still want him out!" He tugged his arm free from James, and took a menacing step towards Sinclair.

The latter was no idiot. The moment James' grip wavered, he had bolted up the stairs for the door.

Slipping once due to his injuries, he threw the door open and dashed along the deck.

"You idiot!" James had finally lost his temper, "He's got really bad injuries! How can you do that?!"

"Whatever. He's gone now. Just shut the door, would'ya?"

James gritted his teeth and ran after Sinclair, afraid that he had run into one of the Lieutenants, or even one of the marines on duty. He got lucky, in a way.

Sinclair was only about 20 paces away, on the ground, with one leg stretched out at a rather odd angle. James approached him slowly and knelt down, resting one hand on the other's back.

Holding his more injured hand to his chest, indicating it had been used (most likely out of habit) to break his fall, and resting his weight on the uninjured leg, Sinclair breathed heavily. James worried for a moment that he was not only injured, but also ill. It struck him also that he did not know how long Sinclair had been in the water before being found by the British marines.

"Est-ce que t'es correct?" James asked quietly, more relieved than he could express at that fact that nobody else had followed him up. And yet, it probably meant another scuffle when he brought his new friend back down. Perhaps he should wake one of Lieutenants...

Sinclair turned his head and smiled at James.

Less than a second later, he whipped his head around and stared upwards in shock. James turned just as fast.

_No!_

"What is the meaning of this? You boys think you can do whatever you like while others are trying to sleep after a long day's work? Explain yourselves!"

The two boys were looking at the face of First Lieutenant Orfell, with several others fast approaching from behind him.

TBC

* * *

Notes:

Gillette thinks in English because it's easier on me and the reader. So there.

Justin's reference to the French being cowardly is not based on the ridiculous modern stereotype, but rather on the Battle of Sluys (1340, if memory serves). It was a naval fight between the British and the French. Reportedly, the English fired so many arrows that the French were driven from their ships into the sea.

My beta (the glorious Meletor Et Al), has informed me that there were usually no beds on these ships. Rather there were hammocks, or some form of hammocks. Although, I did not change anything in this chapter, following chapters will refer to hammocks, rather than beds.

I think that's all. If you need any other clarification, e-mail me.


	3. Delirium

Chapter Three

_"What is the meaning of this? You boys think you can do whatever you like while others are trying to sleep after a long day's work? Explain yourselves!"_

_The two boys were looking at the face of First Lieutenant Orfell, with several others fast approaching from behind him._

Panicking, James rose swiftly to his feet, forgetting any necessary greetings.

"Please, sir! It is not our fault! Sinclair was chased out of the boys' cabins by Robert! He was being attacked, and ran for it. I merely followed to see if he was alright! Don't blame him! H—he doesn't even speak English, sir!"

Orfell did not look sympathetic whatsoever.

"Quit your blubbering, Norrington." He turned to a marine "Run get Robert Arlow from downstairs!"

He turned back to James and glowered, as he was wont to do.

"Now, we'll have this settled as quickly as possible so we can all get back to sleep."

"Yessir," mumbled James, his head bowed slightly. From that angle he could see Sinclair on the ground next to him, and berated himself for forgetting his new friend's condition. James whipped his head up to face Orfell.

"I was having a thought, sir."

"Do I care?"

"Sinclair is very much injured and perhaps ill. Could any questions please wait until tomorrow?"

Well aware ofhow inappropriate and out of place the question was, James waited nonetheless for an answer.

"Tell me, Norrington, if he doesn't speak English, how on Earth do you know what he's saying?"

"My family has often travelled to France, sir. My father always thought it best that I learned the language."

"I see. And Sinclair is his name?"

"Sinclair Thibeault Gillette, sir."

"Gillette?" Orfell paused and rubbed at his chin "The name strikes a chord, but I cannot place it."

None of the other lieutenants said anything, but several looked as though they too had heard such a name before. James gave it no thought. It was not a rare or complicated name. Orfell could well know someone the name Gillette.

Tapping feet were heard on deck. The marine had returned with Robert and, not surprisingly, Theodore in tow. Orfell grumbled in impatience.

"Groves! You were not called for!"

The marine spoke

"No, sir. But he claims to have been witness to the whole thing. He insists he be allowed to give his side of the story."

"I was awake even before James, sir," Theodore said, as politely as possible in the presence of the First Lieutenant, "Please let me explain."

"Very well, but I would like to hear from Arlow first."

Robert looked squint-eyed at Theodore. He knew the latter would only tell the truth, but he also knew that if he were blamed for waking most of the ship up, the result would be lashes. However, if well-directed, he could not only avoid them, but put the blame on the French rat.

Robert looked Orfell in the eye

"He woke me up. He's trying to put his influence on the others, and he's invadin' our territory. A French person shouldn't be put in with us!"

In his relatively short life, James had never heard such a lame excuse for anything. What influence?

Unfortunately, Orfell seemed to know what this 'influence' constituted, and nodded knowingly at Robert's testimony. Theodore gawped. Orfell swung around to face Gillette, who had his back to the lieutenant, as he was still on the ground.

"Stand up, boy!" he barked, then paused, obviously remembering that the 'boy' couldn't understand him. In fact, Sinclair hadn't turned; he didn't even know Orfell was talking to him. James took his uninjured arm gently.

"Le Lieutenant veut parler avec toi."

Sinclair rose unsteadily and turned to face Orfell.

"Ask him why he what he was doing when he woke Robert up."

"Actually sir, both Groves and I were awake at that time. We could tell you."

"You and Groves are also best friends. Whatever one says, the other repeats. I want to hear his story, with no mistranslations! Lieutenant Saunders," he barked to a man behind him, "You speak French, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Then why don't you translate, just to be sure."

"Very well, sir."

Lieutenant Saunders, probably the kindest man on the ship, stepped forward to stand next to Sinclair and James. Although quite slim, he had a rounded face, giving him a child-like look that reflected his personality. Saunders also spoke several languages; English (obviously), French, German and Italian. He was so well-educated that he had been offered high-paying jobs at three of Europe's most prestigious universities, only to turn them down for a life at sea; though no one, save him, knew why.

Lieutenant Orfell began his 'interrogation' by taking a deep breath, making his already wide torso expand. He rested his hands on his hips and looked Sinclair straight in the eyes.

"So, you woke my men up, did yo—"

James whipped around just in time to see Sinclair's eyelids flutter. The latter toppled over backwards and landed on deck with a thud. Not a sound was made he was completely unconscious.

"Dear Lord," whispered Saunders, bending down.

"Hmph." Orfell narrowed his eyes at Sinclair. "It's just a ploy, Lieutenant. He can't possibly have fallen unconscious so _conveniently._"

Orfell however, was stopped dead in his tracks yet again by the_ unsettlingly large_ pool of blood spreading out from underneath the unconscious boy. The other Lieutenants, plus several marines, rushed forward and dropped to their knees, pushing a worried and disappointed James to the side.

"What? _What_?" demanded an anxious Theodore, "I can't see anything!"

"He's bleeding really badly," replied James in a shaken voice.

"There! An open wound!" cried one of the Lieutenants.

"The stitches must have broken!"

"No, look, sir. It was never stitched in the first place."

"His sheets must be covered in blood!"

"Why was this not checked earlier?!" roared Lieutenant Orfell, who – surprisingly to James – seemed genuinely concerned.

"James!" yelled Saunders, "Run get the surgeon! Now!"

James Norrington ran like the Devil was after him. He tripped once and almost a second time, but made it to the surgeon's room without injury.

"Sir! Sir!" he cried, expecting the man to be awake.

"What the bloody--?" Toby Linger jerked awake, "What do you want, boy? I'll have you flogged-!"

"Lieutenant Orfell wants you immediately! Sinclair – the French boy, is injured, badly! He needs you right away!"

"Good Lord!" In a rapid change of attitude, Linger threw on his nearest clothing and grabbed his supplies "Come along, boy! We must hurry!"

"Follow me, sir!" James rushed ahead of the surgeon, who was surprisingly quick-footed for a man past 50 years. They were on deck in less than two minutes.

* * *

Sinclair Gillette was laughing. His hands hovered in front of his face, but for the most part they made no contact.

James Norrington sat next to Sinclair, with Theodore Groves somewhat behind him. They were eyeing Sinclair with a mixture of confusion and worry. The latter had been laughing for _close to _twenty minutes. It wasn't a loud or harsh laugh, slightly more than a giggle, but it sounded maniacal. James worried that blood loss had brought his new friend to the borders of sanity.

The whole thing had started more than twenty minutes earlier though. It had started about five hours earlier

After collapsing on deck and having his wounds stitched – a nasty cut had also been found on his upper leg – he had remained unconscious for slightly over half an hour. James had been by his bedside in the doctor's cabin for his awakening, but had not been recognized. Rather, Sinclair had assumed i him /i the doctor and questioned James on the whereabouts of – James assumed – friends of his from the sunken French ship. After a few embarrassing minutes of not being able to answer any of Sinclair's questions, James was rather grateful when Sinclair drifted back into sleep.

His next awakening had been almost two and a half hours later, and James was all too ready for it. Sinclair still assumed James the doctor, but he seemed to remember where he was and made a bit of a spectacle out of himself by attempting to speak to James in English. It was a wholehearted attempt gone terribly wrong. Even worse, Theodore had wandered in after about fifteen minutes wearing a rather thick overcoat (which looked suspiciously like Lieutenant Saunders'), and had been assumed the Priest by Sinclair. James quickly explained the situation to his confused – and amused – friend. Sinclair, who of course could not understand a word, had looked James in the eye and asked _"Am I like to die, sir_?. James had reassured him that he was on the mend, and Sinclair had accepted the answer gratefully. Nonetheless, he still insisted on speaking with 'the Priest'.

It was then that James and Theodore had found out – to their utmost dismay – that Sinclair was Catholic.

A while later, when the redhead had drifted back into painless oblivion, James had buried his face in his hands and sighed loudly.

"I should have _known! _Or at least guessed!" he had lamented loudly.

"How would you have known?" Theodore had swung an arm around James' shoulders in an attempt to calm him.

"All of France is Catholic!"

"Oh."

"Well, not _all_ of it, naturally. But most of it is. Anyone loyal to the crown is Catholic."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I went to school too."

"Sorry."

"_I wasn't_ offended."

"Oh."

But by far the most unnerving conversation had come about an hour later, when Sinclair Gillette had awoken in perhaps his most delirious state yet, despite the fact that the colour was coming back into his cheeks at a healthy pace.

Theodore had left the room twenty-five minutes earlier on account of a rumbling stomach, though there was no guarantee he would get any food. James had watched patiently as Sinclair's hazy eyes roamed the ceiling before settling on him, and wondered who he would have to act the part of this time.

_"Am I flying?"_

_"No. What makes you think that?"_

_"Just the sensation. Where am I then?"_

_"On a boat. The _'Everlasting', _to be precise."_

'Everlasting'…_Then I am no doubt on my way to Heaven?"_

_"What? No! You are very much alive."_

_"Oh. I must be very lucky then. I thought I was dead for sure, and was on my way to the Lord."_

_"What made you so sure of that?"_

_"Well, you are an angel, are you not?"_

James had been taken aback at the question, though not insulted.

_"I'm not an angel, not me, no…"_

_"Really?" _Sinclair had sounded disbelieving, _"You look like one."_

_"I…uh…" _James had then been at a complete loss for words, French or English. Sinclair responded by laughing slightly. A moment later James had thought he had heard and rustling sound; it turned out to be Sinclair, who was lifting his arm out from under the blanket.

James had watched, in a slight state of shock, as a heavily freckled hand rose through the air and pressed itself against his cheek. The back of Sinclair's hand ran down James' face, though whether it was meant as a stroke or Sinclair simply didn't have the strength to hold it up had been debatable. All he knew for sure was that despite the fact that he had felt himself grimace slightly, Sinclair had smiled and retracted his hand.

_"Good night, angel,"_ Sinclair said, and for the first time seemed to notice when he was drifting off.

James had sat wringing his hands for a good ten minutes before Theodore returned.

"Did he wake up?" Theodore asked happily. He had obviously eaten.

"No."

"Hmm…..hopefully he'll soon be back to himself. No that it isn't kind of funny to see where he thinks he is next, eh?"

"Oh? Oh, yes, quite." James managed to chuckle along with Theodore for a few seconds.

* * *

Now Sinclair had regained full consciousness, and James knew the current situation was partly his fault. Sinclair had inquired as to the state of the other two Frenchmen on board. James knew nothing of them, except that one of them had woken up for some time a few hours after being rescued. Theodore had volunteered to check up on them.

Upon returning, he broke the news. Yes, one was alive and eating on his own, in fact. The other had passed away from a rather serious burn during the night. Sinclair laughed bitterly. It had to be the Devil's doing, he said, that only he and "_that pig, Ruskin_" had been left alive.

Ruskin, apparently, was a whorer and a drunkard. The only one like that aboard.

And to Sinclair's dismay – no, more than that; terror – they were indeed the only ones found alive on the remains of the _Valeur_.

Now he cried. From what James had gathered, there had been six other boys like himself on the boat. Four had been childhood friends.

Dead.

Two of the lieutenants had been good friends of Sinclair's father. Another was his uncle, on his mother's side.

Dead.

The cat that had once shared their cabin after having snuck on board in search of better lodgings, and had been a friendly companion to everyone on the ship.

Dead.

James hadn't translated a thing for Theodore, who, incidentally, hadn't asked.

"I don't want to know," he had explained simply.Without warning, Sinclair seemed to regain some dignity, though not all would callit that, and began to sob. Now he buried his hands completely into his face, not that it helped. The blanket draped over his knees was soaking within a minute.

Whirling his head around, James could tell that the only thing keeping Theodore in the room was guilt. What would be thought of him if he left?

That thought however, was banished from James' mind when Theo stood up and moved himself over to thebedside to sit down at Sinclair's feet.

"Say something, James," he murmured, "Anything."

James thought desperately. Everything he could think of, no matter how comforting, always seemed to have some double meaning, that could come back and bite him in the rear, or at the least hurt Sinclair's feelings. But something had to be done.

He remembered one of Sinclair's delusional ramblings, and leaned down to his ear with one hand on the redhead's shoulder.

"Peut être, ceci est un effet de Dieu. Hm? Peut être tu es spécial, comme un ange."

_Maybe you're special, like an angel._

Sinclair turned and looked him straight in the eyes. He seemed to have stopped breathing. His eyes searched James' face, looking for something. James felt a bit…odd…

Those were the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen, locked onto his face.

"Oui…" Sinclair seemed out of it. In fact, he seemed to believe everything James had just said, "Oui…comme un ange."

One hand moved from in front of Sinclair's face to his neck, patting his collarbone. Theo eyed him with a raised eyebrow, until the former let out a strangled cry.

"Ma croix! Où est ma croix?!" he was beside himself. Throwing off the covers – into Theo's face – Sinclair rolled onto the floor and tried to kneel on unsteady knees to search the floor, rather frantically.

"As-tu le vu?" he yelled to James, who was searching the mattress.

"What's he looking for?" yelled a ruffled Theodore.

"His cross!"

"What?"

"His cross! Like the ones rich folk wear to church!"

"Oh! Right," Theo automatically dropped next to Sinclair and slid his hand under the bed, moving it back and forth. His helpful nature always kicked in at the right moments.

"I can't find it anywhere," exclaimed James moments later, "It's not in the bed at all!"

"'S not under it either," replied Theo.

Sinclair looked at _them_ nervously.

"L'as-tu trouvé?" he asked tentatively.

"Non," James mumbled. Sinclair turned to Theodore, who shook his head apologetically. The latter turned to James.

"If it had distinctive Catholic qualitives, one of the lieutenants probably has it."

James gasped. Oh dear! This did not bode well for either Frenchman aboard the _Everlasting_.

And behind the worried face, James could see that Sinclair was not just going to give up the search.

TBC

Author's Notes:

Thanks again to –M for beta-ing!

Oh, I put that one conversation between James and Sinclair in italics for a reason. That reason being they're speaking French, but I couldn't be bothered to write it out. I'll only use it when there's no one else around and/or for really long conversations where it would be pointless to translate everything.


End file.
